Family Traits
by Ygrain33
Summary: The burden of foresight may be hard to bear, even for one like Galadriel - and the decision what to do with the knowledge even harder. Originally posted at HASA.
1. Family Traits

Celeborn waved one last time and then slowly let his hand fall. His daughter's future lay ahead, not behind, and she never let her eyes past her husband's face, anyway. The sight of her joy almost outweighed the grief at her departure.

Without looking, he reached for Galadriel's hand.

She didn't respond.

The smile froze on his lips as he turned to her. He had seen it before: the perfect composure, not as much as a single furrow, and a gaze too intent. An emotion chained with a will of steel and cast into the deepest pit. How long had she been like that? He hadn't noticed, too absorbed in his goodbyes with Celebrían.

She never spoke as they left Nanduhirion, nor when they crossed the borders, nor when the music and lights of Caras Galadhon welcomed them in the dusk.

She disappeared while he was dissolving the party but he needn't ask where she had gone; he knew where he would find her.

She didn't raise her head as she heard his footsteps, and he paused for a moment, seeing the silver basin upturned in the grass. The water was spilt on its marble stool and around. Celeborn picked it and placed it back, and then sat under a tree not far from Galadriel, but too far to reach a hand. He leaned against the trunk, closed his eyes and waited.

After some time, her robe rustled behind him. With a pause, she sat next to him. "It is getting cold," she said.

"It is", he replied.

"I am feeling very tired today," she continued.

"It was a long ride, and the merriment even longer. Maybe you would like to rest here for a while, my lady?"

"If I may?" she mumbled.

"Need you ask?"

The smile she feigned was faint.

He wrapped her shoulders in his cloak and she rested beside him, with her head on his lap. He gently pushed aside the tresses from her face and put his arms around her. He felt a shudder going through her body: the closest she ever got to tears. "Are you warmer?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "I am better now."

After a while, he began to hum a melody: a wordless and simple tune, like the song of a rivulet or wind on a sunny day. He meant to lull her to sleep but after some time she took his hand and held it to her cheek. Not ceasing the song, he started to stroke her forehead and temples with his fingers.

Finally she spoke. "She is so much like Finrod had been."

Celeborn was very careful not to let his hand pause. Finrod, her most beloved brother, and one of her relation he also loved best. His flawless memory immediately brought back the vivid image to his mind, the familiar gesture and the laughter he so often heard when the three of them would sit together in Doriath, during Finrod's frequent visits before the peace of Beleriand was broken.

Finrod.

The brother and the sister, so much alike in face, yet of so different mood: where Galadriel was secretive, Finrod was open, where her will would clash with others, he would parley, where she would build a wall impenetrable, he would offer a hearty welcome.

Finrod, the most welcome nephew of Thingol, Finrod, the friend of Men, Finrod, the most beloved of the Noldorin princes.

Finrod, who went to a terrible death, betrayed by his kinsmen and forsaken by his people.

The death that he had foreseen.

Celebrían was truly so much like him, of open and generous heart, beloved by all that knew her. He had seen the semblance himself on many an occasion, and had heard the words before.

Yet this time they sounded different.

To gain some time to recollect his thought, he said, "So she is, a joy to everyone. Such loss is truly hard to bear, but surely our daughter shall come to see us now and then."

Again the shudder, and she held his hand tighter but spoke no more, and he knew all too well than to offer a console unasked, though the last time he had seen her like that was when the news of Finrod's death reached Doriath.

And he also knew better than to ask questions.

Still holding his hand, Galadriel finally fell asleep. He held his most beloved in his arms and watched her, the delicate curves of cheek and throat, the golden arc of brows and lashes, the lips so pale after the strain. The will of steel, the wall impenetrable, he guessed what she had resolved to keep secret from him, and he took care that his tears did not wake her.


	2. Glowing Embers

When Celeborn finally retired to their private chambers it was long after midnight, and Galadriel had preceded him only shortly. The tidings the Fellowship had brought were grave, and there were pressing matters to be discussed, strategies to be planned, and orders to be issued. The thought of a balrog awoken, and lurking almost at their doorstep, again sent shudder down Celeborn's spine. He remembered, aye, he remembered all too well.

As he entered, Galadriel was sitting on the bed, undoing her hair: a silhouette behind the drapes, her white and gold gently protruding as her hands slowly moved with the comb. For a moment, he allowed himself the pleasure of the familiar sight, so comforting after a long day. Then, as his eyes caught the ever-present glitter of Nenya, the feeling of serenity disappeared. He took a deep breath.

"Why?" he demanded.

She moved her head in his direction only partly, as if she had expected the question and hoped it would not be raised. "The embers of his desire had already been glowing. I only blew to set them afire."

"And to set things in motion."

Her hands neither paused, nor shivered. "And to set things in motion," she repeated. "He is already doomed, and the sooner the fire consumes him, the better."

Celeborn's own hands itched, like many times before, to have throttled Celebrimbor. She had not been so ice-cold before she donned the power of that accursed jewel. "So. You hope that Boromir will succumb to the lure of the One pre-timely. Before he reaches Minas Tirith, where he can command his men, and his father's heart."

"Especially his father. An unruly Steward plotting against the rightful King, now that the fate stands on the edge - no. That cannot be allowed. A strife like that in Gondor would be the undoing of Gondor, and of the Middle-Earth. I shall not have Aragorn's blood spilt in the courtyard of Kings."

"And so you acted to make sure that the Ring does not go to Minas Tirith. Even at the cost that the blaze you helped to concoct might burn those around. However, Lady, that was not the point of my question. I perceive the risks, and see few other ways, as well. The matter that I find most pressing at the instant is, _why did you not tell me_?"

Finally, her coldness shattered, and shattered was also her voice when she replied: "I shall not have anyone do the dirty work for me, and you the least of all." And she half-reached her hands to him, with helplessness she only rarely showed. Then, abruptly, she withdrew the hands and hid them in her lap, as if they were already stained with Boromir's blood.

He knelt beside her and kissed the hands he held so dear, concealing the revulsion he always felt at the touch of the metal. "Lady," he said. "Galadriel, _vanimelda_ - so much you know, so much you see, and yet you do not understand that sometimes burdens one cannot carry are the heaviest?" The hands he held shivered. Her eyes would not meet his.

After a moment, he took up the comb where she had left it and started to tend to her hair, taking pleasure from its silken touch that she had never allowed to anyone else, until she raised her eyes and smiled at him. He returned the smile, and forgave her time again, for she was Galadriel, and since he meant to keep his own embers glowing steady, there was no other way.

Besides, he knew that their time was coming to an end, and did not intend to waste a single instant.

Neither did she, pausing only to take off Nenya - a thing so rare that it made well for an apology.


End file.
